


everwarm

by Rigil_Kentauris



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Fevers, First Kiss, Illness, Impulse Decisions, M/M, Plot Bunny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 07:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17935247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: Healing from Múspell's damage takes a long time. Losing it all, though. That could take a only second.





	everwarm

**Author's Note:**

> you know that writer feel where you have these long elaborate drawn out ideas for longfics but like they really just exist in like five scenes in your head? yaeh well this is one of those things. i wrote it quick, so. its written quickly.
> 
> ~~anyway up next i sing row row row your boat on a fifty hour loop~~

It takes a long time, to heal. Hríd's skin is blisters and burns, sores and strikes and scars that seems to be on the verge of forming before collapsing and dissipating into lines of pus. He’s dying, some days; others, he only wishes he was.

And always, Zacharias’ voice. Telling him the history of Múspell, this strange land Hríd finds his body failing himself in, this strange world with its long reign of warrior regents who sailed across lakes of lava on crystalline boats. Telling him stories about distant lands and the gateways between worlds, the eeks and stretches of magic that crinkle on the edge of existence. He tells Hríd stories about the realm of the dead, and never says how he knows such stories to be true.

Hríd – dying, dying, _dying_ \- can hardly hear any of them, but that matters little. It’s Zacharias' voice.

It’s his hands.

It’s the everwarm touch of his skin as he pushes sweat-soaked hair out of Hríd’s eyes when he’s too exhausted, too weak, to even think.

And it takes a long, long time to heal.

Longer until Hríd can share stories about his own homeland in turn. Even longer until he can summon the energy to crack a smile whenever Zach sees him. Longer still until the day Hríd realizes Zacharias seems to recognize Hríd’s voice as closely as Hríd does Zacharias’.

It’s getting easier and easier until the fever comes back with a vengeance. And he ignores it, but he _can’t_ ignore it, he’s walking and he drops flat against the ground.

As always, _his_ voice floating above him. 

When Hríd comes to they are so close, Zach leaned over, one hand curled on the side of Hríd's neck cradling his head protectively, the other resting, barely even connecting, ghosting more like, ghosting over Hríd’s forehead. 

And the sensation is burning. 

And so is the panicked look in the delicately mismatched colors of Zacharias’ eyes. 

And Hríd isn’t thinking. 

He leans up and kisses Zacharias. And he knows his fever must be quite bad this time, because the gentle touch of Zacharias’ lips feel comfortably cool. He’s in love. In that moment, he’s in love. His heart rate jumps. Sunlight on ice – his nerves are cracking open. He’s a little dizzy. Zach’s lips are a little chapped, but they’re perfect. Curved, and quirked, and they part a little with surprise and for just a moment a puff of his warm breath brushes Hríd’s mouth and his world swims. 

And then Zach pulls back. 

And Hríd remembers where he is. 

Not in the hazy line between his fever-fueled dreams, and not in the delusion of flashes of the future he’s been recollecting when he’s dying and life would be so easy to surrender. No. He’s here. He’s now. And Zacharias’ eyes are wide with something horrifyingly undefinable. 

“I-” Hríd stammers, but he can barely get out more than a whisper right then. “I’m so-”

Zacharias kisses him back. Hríd doesn’t realize it’s happened until it’s over, it's so quick and so light. He’s left with only the faint impression of the faint reflection of a touch. 

“Prince Hríd,” Zacharias says. He smiles so rarely, and he’s not doing it now, but the odd undefinable thing in his eyes is clearing up to something Hríd’s beginning to recognize as happiness. “I understand how you feel. But-” he interjects, before Hríd can respond. “You’re ill. Get well, first.”

And if Hríd thought healing was a thing that took an intolerably long time before, well. 


End file.
